Eleventh Grave in Moonlight (Charley Davidson #11)(6)

“Yep. And instead of telling her she was crazy like everyone else, instead of making her feel stupid, you went with it. Even though you didn’t believe her, you helped her work through her grief.”

“It was what she needed at the time.” She took his hand again. “I’m so sorry I doubted her.”

“But she didn’t know that. That’s all that matters.”

“Oh, my God,” she said, pulling him into her arms. Her shoulders shook with her newfound knowledge. Her new circumstance.

Angel and I stood to give them a moment. It didn’t take him long, however. It never took him long.

“So, we gonna make out now? All the cool kids are doing it.” He gestured toward the pair on the floor.

“You’ve been hanging out with me way too long.” I took a good, long look at him. He still wore the clothes he’d died in, as did almost all departed. And those that didn’t flummoxed me. He wore a dirty A-line T-shirt, the blood from a gunshot wound still on his chest. His jeans rode too low on his hips and the bandanna he wore rode too low on his brow, but he was an absolutely gorgeous kid. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?”

He was supposed to be tailing my curmudgeonly uncle. What good did it do me to have minions if they didn’t … min?

“Swopes is on it. I couldn’t miss this.”

“Of course not. How are you?”

His lashes narrowed in suspicion. “Good. I’d be better if we made out.”

“How’s your mom?”

He lifted a shoulder. “She’s good. She’s dating a really nice guy. It’s weird.”

I laughed. “She deserves a nice guy.”

“She always did.”

I raised a hand to his jawline. Stroked my fingers over the dark peach fuzz there. He had barely begun life when he passed. His death was so senseless. So utterly needless.

He took my tenderness as a cue. Stepped closer. Buried his face in the crook of my neck. Pressed in to me, then let one hand drift around my waist. After a minute, it drifted some more. Lower and lower until it rested on my left ass cheek.

I rolled my eyes and tried not to laugh. The kid would try anything, but he was thirteen. It was in his adolescent DNA. And hugging him pretty much made my day. I felt like an older sister even though, if one counted the fact that he’d died at thirteen in ’95, he was older than I was.

Before he could protest—or molest me further—I wrapped my arms around him and hugged. Hard.

This was the point where I usually threatened him. Pushed him back. Slapped his hands away. My response surprised him, which was the reason I did it all stealthlike. He didn’t have time to react. I could get in a good hug before kicking him to the curb.

I placed a brisk kiss on his cheek, then stepped out of his reach.

“I win.” I smirked, but he only stared at me.

After a few seconds, he asked, “Not that I didn’t enjoy that, but are you okay?”

“I’m grand, beautiful boy.”

He grimaced. He hated it when I called him that. Sucked to be him.

“And you didn’t win,” he said. “I got to cop a feel. Doesn’t get any better than that.”

“Damned sure does, Skippy.” I reached up and fondled his peach fuzz again. “You sure you hit puberty?”

He caught hold of my hand and rubbed the backs of my fingers over his mouth, the move entirely too sensual considering the age difference.

“I could prove it to you,” he said, a confident challenge in his eyes. The little shit.

With the help of Logan the Vampire, Dr. Mayfield got to her feet.

I rushed forward to help steady her. “How are you, Doctor?”

She wobbled as we helped her to a chair.

“You know, you can cross through me if you’d like. I’m sure you have family—”

“No,” she said quickly, then swallowed and started over. “Sorry, no, thank you. I’d like to check on my sister. Can I do that?”

“You sure can. I bet Logan would help you.”

He nodded, his enthusiasm evident.

“You don’t have to,” I said to him. “You can cross as well.”

“I’m okay here for now, but thanks. I can show her the ropes. My dad … he still goes into my room every night and cries. Maybe you could get a message to him?”

“Absolutely.” I put an arm on his shoulder. “But I think he’ll still cry.”

“I know. But he’ll feel better knowing that I’m there with him.”

“Yes, he will. And if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

“You’re hard to miss,” he said with a soft chuckle.

And so I was. As I turned to leave, the current occupant, a.k.a. my client, stood at the door, coffee in one hand, briefcase in the other. He took in the state of his office. His well-manicured jaw hung loose on its hinges, his mouth open in what I could only assume was shock. Or he’d been infected by the Thing. Pretty much all versions of that movie were creepy.

Logan spoke first. “Um, we should probably go. Now.”

“Later, gorgeous,” Angel said. The deserter.

The coffee in my client’s hand fell and spilled onto the cream-colored carpet. I took another look at our surroundings. It wasn’t that bad, for heaven’s sake.